(I am beyond myself with excitement to welcome Megan Crane to Saturdays in the Nook. You must check out her books if you enjoy chick lit–please leave a comment and let her know you appreciate her sharing this fantastic story)

In our house growing up, we had a ritual. Once a week my mother would gather up all four of us, pack us into the family station wagon (easier said than done, given the chaos and squabbling that four children kicked up like a cloud of dust whenever we were in the same room), and take us to the local library. Once there, she set us free to search out any books we liked.

And oh, how I liked that library. It was my home away from home. (This was before I was in high school and expected to produce research papers in the adult section of the library—much less fun.) I remember every detail of it. I remember the smell of it in winter—the radiators hissing out the scent of wet wool, slate, and overheated kids. I remember the little person chairs, the bright murals, and the unfailingly kind librarians who could not only recommend new books to read, but avert a coming meltdown with a single stern glance. I would run my hands along the spines of the books, sniff the pages, then settle down cross-legged on the floor wherever I happened to be standing and start reading.

Because there was nothing on earth I loved as much as reading. There still isn’t. My mother read to us faithfully every day, not because she thought she should, but because she enjoyed it. She tells me that I taught myself to read when I was three. I imagine this was because I was too impatient to wait my turn or share with my three siblings. I am far too old and large these days to cuddle up on her lap and share a book, but I can still remember what that felt like, with her animated voice in my ear and her arms surrounding me. Who wouldn’t love to read with such a great start?

In my elementary school, I read every single book in the school library’s fiction section. Amelia Bedelia, Trixie Belden, B is For Betsy. I read far above my age and supposed reading level. I remember feeling incredibly annoyed that there weren’t more books for me. I wanted to read all the books there were, anywhere. So many worlds to disappear into. So many dreams and stories and adventures. Left to my own devices, I would spend days lost in the pages of books, emerging only to eat or to construct elaborate games with my sister—all of them based on the books I’d been reading.

But my mother is the one who created this thirst in me. She never censored a thing I read, or even so much as commented on it. Even when, in seventh grade, I developed a passionate love for bodice-ripping romance novels, which she herself was not particularly into, she never said a word. Other adults would sniff at the books in my hands and ask if my mother knew what I was reading. Ever precocious, I would sniff back and tell them that while she might not know the specific title, she would never dream of censoring me. This did not exactly give me a good reputation amongst the adults I knew! My mother drove me all over northern New Jersey to find the always-moving secondhand book shops where I found all the category romance novels—Tami Hoag, Nora Roberts, Kay Hooper, Alexandra Sellers—and the sweeping historicals—Shirlee Busbee, Johanna Lindsey, Jennifer Blake—I so adored.

Even today, my mother sends me books, or recommends them. She is never without a book in the car, as she does her errands, or at appointments. She is the reason we’ve spent whole afternoons of family vacations sitting around together—all lost in our own books, together. She has managed to share her own love of books with her children, in so doing, giving us the greatest gift I can imagine—one that knows no boundaries, and no limits, save that of the imagination.

You can find out more about Megan’s fabulous books at her website, www.megancrane.com and be sure read her journal as well.

The Friendly Book Nook welcomes Rachel Hauck to Saturdays in the Nook! We love Rachel’s books Sweet Caroline and Love Starts with Elle.

Falling In Love with Reading

I have to confess my elementary school years were in an era when there were only three television stations, AM was the radio rage and reading was an encouraged, viable pass time.

My parents’ rule was bed at nine with reading privileges until nine-thirty. My older brother and I are readers to this day.

I always enjoyed biographies. I liked reading about real people. This love has impacted my fiction writing world. Many letters and reviews from readers comment, “the characters are so real.” I suppose to me, they are, the same as Betsy Ross, or Abigail Adams.

In fifth grade, our teacher read The Little House books to the entire class. Every day after lunch, we propped our chin in our hands and leaned against the desk’s top, anxious to hear what challenges faced Pa, Ma, Mary and Laura. We were all in love with Laura Ingalls Wilder. Even the boys. As soon as we could, we checked the already-read books from the school library.

For Christmas one year, my parents bought me the entire set of eight. I consumed them again. I’d sit in my room, reading, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By forty-something, I believe I’ve read the series and all the complimentary books at least a dozen times. I even collected them in hardback.

The Little House books brought me in touch with history, lives that had gone before, real people making their way in life. It’s the ultimate story. Family, love, adventure, overcoming and humor. These are things I strive to include in my writing today.

Over the years I’ve been impacted by various authors. Some famous and extolled like Tolstoy, some more obscure like Maggie O’Farrell or Belva Plain. But more than anything, reading feeds my passion to write. Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a great book, but set it aside because I’m so inspired to write.

Good books should do that to all of us. Inspire us to live better, choose better, go for our dreams and passion, perhaps forget the past and press forward to the hidden treasures of the future. It’s never too late.

If Laura Ingalls Wilder and family can survive famine, floods, the long winter, Indian war rituals, living in a one room shanty, teaching school at fifteen, then I figure I can handle face-on anything life sends my way. But for the grace of God go I.

Happy reading!

Rachel Hauck is a the best selling author of ten novels. She lives in sunny, though sometimes hurricane plagued, central Florida with her husband, a pastor. They have three ornery pets.

She is a graduate of Ohio State University, earning a degree in Journalism, and a huge Buckeyes football fan. Rachel served the writing community as the Past President of American Christian Fiction Writers, and now sits on the organization’s Advisor Board.

Visit her blog and website (where you can view a cool trailer for Love Starts with Elle! at www.rachelhauck.com

About Amber Miller: Amber Miller is an author and freelance web site designer who lives with her husband in beautiful Colorado Springs. They don’t have any children yet, but they do have a vivacious puppy named Roxie, who is half Border Collie and half Flat-Haired Retriever. Already nearing 65 pounds, she keeps them on their toes. And with her penchant for rising at 6am on the dot, Roxie is giving Amber and her husband a good taste of what it’s like to be parents.

Amber has sold four books to the Heartsong Presents line of Barbour Publishing with the promise of two more before the end of the year. She is currently pursuing an expansion into trade-length historical fiction as well. Other writing credits include several writing articles for various publications, five short stories with Romancing the Christian Heart, and nine contributions to the book, 101 Ways to Romance Your Marriage. A born-again Christian since the age of seven, her faith in Christ has often sustained her through difficult experiences. She seeks to share that with others through her writing.

Hi, my name is Tiffany Stockton, but I publish under the pen name of Amber Miller, derived from my middle and maiden names. I was published before I got married last year, and my wonderful husband doesn’t mind my having this alter ego.

So, here I am today at the Friendly Book Nook. What a cozy place. Makes you want to pull up a chair, grab a cup of your favorite coffee and a snuggly blanket, then settle in for a good read. And when you do that, I hope you’ll reach for my first book, Promises, Promises. It’s available in bookstores and most of the top online retailers this month.

Reviews so far have just about blown me away. Makes me rather nervous with book 2, which released to the book club this month. I’m nearly biting my nails off in anticipation of what readers will say about this one. If they loved the first so much, I don’t want to disappoint them.

All right, so I know I shouldn’t be worrying. I mean, my entire career is in the hands of my readers, right? And they all love me, right? So, why be concerned? Well, maybe because I’m not perfect, and it’s entirely possible I’ll write a book that won’t resonate with readers? I know that’s true, but my worrying won’t change a thing. Nevertheless, could you do me a favor and reassure me a bit? Even just a smidgeon?

Go ahead. Grab my book. I’ll wait.

Now, take a little time to read it, if you haven’t already. It’s only 170 pages in mass-market paperback size, so it shouldn’t take you long. When you’re done, let me know what you think. I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks to Amy, her mother and her sister, for hosting me today. It’s been a real pleasure to drop by and feel so welcome. I appreciate you coming for a visit too. If you post a comment, I’ll be checking back this week to reply.

Until then, happy reading!

Read Leah’s review of Promises, Promises here!

Hi Amy. Thanks for including me in your blog! I hope that your readers will love The Moon in the Mango Tree and the heroine, my grandmother, Barbara Perkins. As you know, I was very close to her and this book includes stories that she told all my life of her time in Siam (now known as Thailand) with my grandfather, who was a medical missionary at first, and later on, a royal physician in Bangkok. Barbara Perkins was a fascinating woman—a suffragette, beautiful, smart, talented—trained to sing grand opera. But she gave up her dreams in 1919 for her husband’s.

It wasn’t until she passed away that I found her letters and journals that revealed the secrets of the woman underneath, a part of my grandmother that I’d never known. The grandmother I knew was always laughing; she was magical and hid that darker side. She was so very young when she traveled across the globe with my grandfather to Siam, believing that they would live in Bangkok, a large exotic city where she could continue singing. So to find that the church had actually assigned them to an isolated mission in the northern jungles was a shock, to say the least. She wasn’t the typical missionary, by any means. The Moon in The Mango Tree is a love story, but also it’s the story of a woman struggling to find her place in the world, to find faith and meaning and purpose in life. Bret Lott put it well when he described this book as a tale of love, adventure, faith, and the clash of desire and duty.

The surprise that I found in her letters was the longing to sing that she kept inside as she began to follow my grandfather’s journey through life. In the beginning, in 1919, at a time when women were close to winning the vote, but were not yet allowed even to serve on juries, the idea of following her own dream, a career in music, was not a practical choice. She was from a large, close knit, traditional family and she loved my grandfather, Harvey Perkins very much. When she wept on her mother’s shoulder for the loss of her musical career, her mother’s answer was that the choice was Harvey’s to make—it was his career, his decision, and she was his wife. “Grow up, Barbara,” is the way she put it, as most mothers would have done in that day. “Do you think that you can feed a family with music…Your duty is to be a good wife and support his decisions.”

So in 1919, as much as she loved Harvey, she really did not have the opportunity to choose between love and her career. Today, women are free to choose because of women like Barbara almost a hundred years ago who marched for women’s rights, and who fought tradition, custom, and established thinking to have that right. Just the freedom to make the choice is the pivotal point, regardless of which direction we choose to take, because today we can find meaning and purpose in so many different ways.

The 1920’s was a dazzling decade of change. Barbara grew during this period, and finally she reached for that lodestar that always danced just ahead, her dream to sing. In her letters I found more than the dutiful wife who followed her husband to Siam. I found a free spirit, joyful, optimistic, seeking faith, enchanted with the world as she found it, but conflicted because of her longing for something of her own, to live her own life outside of Harvey’s shadow. Near the end of the decade, I found a woman alone in Paris, Lausanne, and Rome, where she resumed her singing career, and where—at last—she faced the real and excruciating choice, and this time the choice was hers to make.

As a lawyer for twenty-five years in a large international law firm I have seen woman facing this choice between families and career many times, each with different and complicating circumstances. Many of us are forced in one direction or the other by circumstances—maybe for financial reasons, or emotional ones, or because of a certain drive and ambition, or many others. But our choices today are no longer limited by tradition and custom, and today we have the freedom to live however we choose, although the thing that I have come to believe is that almost all important choices run the risk of losing something that we love, some sacrifice.

It’s interesting to me that despite the doors that are open for women now, despite the fact that women have every opportunity to reach the summit of their professions today, the most recent U.S. census shows that more and more women are choosing to stay home, or return home, to raise their children. Sixty Minutes recently did a story on this issue—Leslie Stahl asking the question—could it really be that this generation of women, the first to achieve success without having to fight for it, is now walking away, willingly, and without regrets? Opting out?

Harvard Business School did a survey not long ago and found that just 38% of its female graduates in the child-raising years were now in the work-place full time. And Paula Zahn asked the big question on CNN – “Why are more women now choosing family over the workplace, and will the trend continue?

My grandmother’s choice in Rome all those years ago is one answer to that question. In The Moon in the Mango Tree, your readers may hate her choice, or love it, Amy. But either way, I’ll bet they understand it! Regards to all your readers – I’d love to hear what they think! Pamela

B&H Fiction has graciously offered to give one of our readers a copy of this book. To enter, simply leave a comment sharing your thoughts about the ideas raised in this post. This is open to United States addresses only and we’ll leave it open for a week! Make sure you leave a valid email address so that if you win, we can contact you! For an extra entry, blog about this giveaway with a link back to this post. Good luck!